And Lifts The Latch
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: There's enough stories going around about this prisoner that she's beginning to doubt men and firepower. The Joker waltzes away, and Harley Quinn follows. Postscript to The Dark Knight. Part three posted. Really finished now.
1. And Lifts The Latch

**And Lifts The Latch**

She doesn't like working the night shift. But that's all that's available at the moment, and even jails have to be cleaned; especially jails. There's a ridiculous amount of bodily fluids that find their way to the floors, the walls, sometimes the ceilings, urine as a display of contempt for authority, blood as a display of contempt for life. Almost as if the police weren't present at all. Maybe some of it is from the police. She has no way of knowing. She is not there for the actions, just for the residue.

She doesn't have to be there on her own, anyway. There's a uniformed officer, official and impassive, standing with his hands clasped in front of him, back to the wall. His presence is reassuring but she's beginning to doubt, to wonder. There's enough stories about the occupant of this particular cell to make her lose faith in men and firepower. Not all of the stories were in the papers, some made the rounds of the poor apartments and the tenements by all the glad bearers of sad tidings. Told with a certain amount of glee, the way people crowd around train accidents and commemorate holocausts.

He's been stripped of practically everything. She wouldn't know, really, except she, of course, like everyone else, like the whole city, was watching. His home videos, aired on the TV. She doesn't dare to look at him, she thinks he'll kill her with his bare eyes. That first night as she's sweeping, mopping, as quickly as she can because she knows the officer will understand her haste, she can't hear anything except his breathing. She hurries on. He drags in one particularly deep breath, and she tenses, and he says, "Well, hello there."

"Don't speak to the prisoner," the cop tells her. She snorts.

"You don't have to tell me that," she says, but it's under her breath, and the officer doesn't hear. He does, however, and he laughs, loudly, clapping his hands She gets out of there fast.

She sleeps through the day.

Ten o'clock the next night she's back, working diligently, working hard, earning her wages. It goes smoothly till she reaches the room with his cell, a different officer this time. She doesn't sweep; she's nervous. She slops water across the floor with the mop.

"Careful, there," he advises her. His voice is low and curls around itself like smoke, like a sleeping tiger. Deliberate. She swallows. "You know," he goes on thoughtfully, steepling his fingers in front of him and tapping the pointer fingers together, "the nature of imprisonment is a curious and elusive thing. From here, it looks as though _you're_ the one behind bars." This catches her breath right away from her and she looks up, so quickly, so briefly, but she sees his bright mad eyes and his smile, although he's not smiling. "What are you in for?"

She moves faster, and escapes, shaken, and though she sleeps through the sunlight she is restless and plagued by nightmares that are also memories, And he's waiting for her again, and takes up the conversation where they left off, as though they hadn't stopped at all.

"What _were_ you in for, anyway?" She swallows hard, doesn't reply. He begins to guess. "Can't be theft. You've got that disturbingly honest look about you. A strange thing, honesty. Leads to such— expectations. As soon as people start expecting thing from you," he snaps his fingers, "you might as well blindfold yourself and hand them the gun. No, not theft or general crookedness." He's pointing a finger at her, she can hear it, feel it, everything but see it. "I got it. Grievous bodily harm, mm? A little assault and battery. Am I getting warm?" Her shoulders are hunched as if to ward off blows and all he's throwing at her as of yet is words. "Attempted murder? Lying in wait. Conspiracy to commit genocide. You tried to assassinate the president. Nah, that can't be it. Who would blame you?"

"Watch it," says the cop, and the prisoner makes mouth noises in response, gleefully, moistening his lips with his tongue.

"A Republican policeman. How terrifying."

"That's enough," says the cop, and he subsides, to her surprise, and she leaves, grateful to the officer. An unanticipated emotion; she hasn't felt gratitude to them for a long time. Because what good have they done her so far?

Next night, a new guard on duty. He resumes, and he's conversational, and seems understanding and merciful as though only he can begin to comprehend what she's been through. "It was self-defense, right." The cop says nothing. She straightens up from her stance, leaning her weight onto the mop.

"What?"

"Self-defense. That's what_ I _always say." It's like a confidance, one killer to another. She's looking at him before she realizes it, before her mind can catch the furtive turn of her head. He looks almost more grotesque without his makeup to hide behind, dressed in prisoner's orange; he looks like someone snuck him into reality, a fugitive from the space inside someone's head, someone who'd had a bad childhood. His skin is rough with that particular roughness men get, about the chin and temples, when they work in the sun for years, and the scars cut across it without neat edges, puckered and worn. When they were fresh, they were uncared for, had not been allowed to heal. She tries to tear her gaze away. It's like looking at a beggar, an amputee veteran on the sidewalk. Except worse because he's staring right back and not asking for anything so free as charity. "Self-defense. Am I right?" he prompts. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare"

"It's also rude to make assumptions about people's pasts," she manages at least, and his face, improbably, relaxes.

"I was beginning to think you were mad at me," he says. "I'd hate there to be _two_ mad people in a room as small as this." The cop is doing nothing. She's fascinated despite herself.

"Is that what you are, then? Mad?"

"My momma always said," he says, stressing his sibilants with undue emphasis, "crazy is as crazy does. So you're going to have to ask yourself, I guess— what's crazier? Being a psychotic murderer—" Large, exaggerated air quotes around the phrase, and she bets he wishes he had his gloves to flesh out the movement, the meaning. "— or making sure his floor is clean?" He fluttered his hands like wings in the air around his face, his lank hair not even stirring. "Cuckoo— cuckoo."

It's the absence of malice that gets her. He is having a little joke at her expense, and he wants nothing more than for her to join in the fun. She comes closer to the bars, though she knows she shouldn't. The cop still says nothing and she wonders if Gotham's finest has fallen asleep on the job. She doesn't dare turn her gaze over her back to find out. "How dare you pass judgement on me," she says, still torn between anger and a sick sort of fascination, the kind that fueled the spread of news around the tenements.

"It takes one to know one," he informs her chidingly, then adopts an air, an expression, of sanctimonious apology, clasping his hands together in front of him. "Go easy on me, I've had my faith in humanity recently restored. It's enough to make anyone shaky."

She puts a hand on the bars. "I want to you take it back," she says. He stands up.

"Never move back. Only forward. If you don't want to trip on all the people you stepped on on the way—"

"Take it back," she repeats. "Please."

He wraps his hand around hers on the bar with a swiftness bordering on the supernatural, but it's how normal his hand feels that frightens her. How like a human's. He leans his grinning face into hers. _Why so serious? _She can feel the words coming before she hears them; she tears her hand from its captivity under his and she runs away. The cop has been awake, unblinking all this time, and she knows not to expect any help from that quarter. He shrugs back against he wall, affects an air of boredom.

The next night, he says, "This is our fifth date, you know, and, well– I got you something." He is faking a look of abashment rather well. She doesn't want to see it so she turns her eyes away. "No?" he prompts. "You scorn my attentions? Really? I'd better warn you— hell hath no fury like a psycho with a sense of humor. Didn't your mother ever tell you, 'Just say yes?'"

She bends into the work, and he watches her.

"So did you kill someone with a mop? Household cleaner, hmm? With kindness?" He sees her flinch. "The deadliest of all weapons," he says wistfully, "because they never see it coming. And if they do, it's not like they can complain. 'Uh, excuse me, officer, my wife is being really nice to me recently. She made me 3-alarm chili and she's going like a bunny rabbit. I think she's got it in for me.' No. Did I ever tell you about my wife? Remind me to tell you about my wife when I'm at liberty to demonstrate." He watches a moment more. "So what did he do to you?" he says at last, and she slams the mop into the bucket, starts to walk away.

"You missed a spot," he calls. She looks at the cop. He looks back impassively. She turns, and sees that the prisoner is pointing at a spot very near the cell which, as a matter of fact, is dry as a bone. She heaves the mop out, slops it across the floor without wringing it out first. Water makes a small river and a definite pool under the bars and into the cell. He watches her with his hollow eyes and then she looks back at him, for the briefest time, just before she begins again to walk away. He steps backwards, sighing in misplaced contentment, and his booted feet slip on the wet floor, he falls; his head hits the cement with a sickening thud, a crunch. She stands arrested, aghast, memories flooding up from their banishment in her mental cellar. The cop sighs harshly, and takes a moment to lock the door. She stares a bit wildly at him.

"If it's not a trick, then he's probably dead. Don't want anyone trying to revive him," he tells her grimly, and she knows that no matter how many of the police are in his secret employ, none of them ever want him on the streets again. They don't conform to his idea, his plan, of a cancerous society laughing at the flames; they just want to earn a little extra, not take over the world. They are no one's right hand man.

The cop unlocks the complicated impediments to freedom, enters the cell. Not without caution; lethal jokes have been played by this man before now. Real blood-spillers. He advances to the prone body after swinging the cell door shut again after him, knees crooked, arms at the ready. He walks carefully to the body, watches for breathing and finds none. She isn't breathing much herself, halfway to the door which she can now not get out of, finding herself unable to move. The cop bends down, puts his fingers on the prisoner's neck to feel for a pulse.

The prisoner's eyes spring open.

"_Surprise_!" he bellows, and begins to laugh, and continues laughing. What happens next is both disturbingly complicated and deviously simple, and when it is over the cop lies in his place, and isn't moving, and the prisoner is advancing towards the cell door, holding the bloody keys out like well-wielded knife. He wasn't faking all of it; blood streams down the back of his head, makes inroads on his face.

"You know," he says conversationally as she bleats panic and beats on the door which withstands her easily, not even bending. "I find that there's nothing like a little fresh air to help the senses. Clear the head, and that. Why, with a little freedom and a mind like mine, _who knows_—" The cell door swings open. There's nothing between them now.

"Don't you want to know what I got you?" he says.

She backs up to the door, and he advances on her, reaching coyly down his shirtfront and coming out with a spray of violently-colored plastic flowers. He shakes these and they shift into a string of flags, the colors no less bright. He wraps them around her throat and pulls lightly. She can't breathe to scream or protest even without the pressure, can only grip the flags with all her fingers and try to hold on to light, air and consciousness. He tilts his head and peers at her.

"You never did tell me what he did to you," he prompts. "Come on. Let me in on the secret. I promise not to tell anyone— unless they ask— and _his_ lips are sealed." He jerks his head towards the policeman lying still in the cell, and narrows his eyes at her, runs his tongue around his lips. "Was it— was it bad? Did he hurt you? Were you being noble, did you both reach for the gun, did you— slip him a little arsenic in his coffee, what, come on? Rat poison?" His words spooled from him, calculated chaos on a string. "Who was he, your husband? Boyfriend? Father, brother, priest, gay roommate, what?"

She can't do anything but shake her head, and open her mouth to gasp for breath. He loosens the string of flags, nods deeply as though he understands her predicament and will allow her a little leeway for her obvious handicap.

She says, "My son."

She doesn't want to tell him anything else, and he doesn't want to hear it. His eyes light up in the most horrific way, and he breathes a quiet, "_Oh_," in sheer delight. And then, "You know what's wonderful? What's great, what's just so fan-freaking-tastic? You're all so close." He breathes into her face. "Five seconds away from madness and rubbing up against each other. You're all freaking _nutjobs_ with pretensions. I don't have to do a thing except set the top spinning." His brilliant grin is all she can see. "Thank you," he tells her. "And I mean that sincerely. You've restored my sense of purpose. That whole city out there is desperately in need of an enema. And I _know_ I got a turkey baster somewhere." He pulls her away from the wall, spins her around so her back is to him. "Let's pretend," he grinds out, "that you're a hostage. From reality. I'm offering you a chance to step into a better world, see, but in fact all I'm doing is using you as a human shield. You— I never did get your name, what was it?" His hand slides familiarly up her front till it finds her laminated identity card, and he tucks his chin into the crook of her neck to peer at it. "Ms. Quinn. You, Ms. Quinn, are _s_omething else."

His laugh vibrates right through her.

She wishes he would put the makeup back on, and she could forget her secret belief that there was still a man somewhere inside there.

"I'm going to find me a captain's hat," he spins out. "I fancy somewhere sunny."

Both hands now, creeping upwards, to find her neck. He disdains the flags now as being beneath him. His finger span her throat, and he squeezes lightly; then harder, but only as hard as it takes.

She's surprised, practically shocked, to wake some time later in the same place. Outside the door, which is now ajar, the jail is ominously silent.

He's used her mop, finished her job. He's left nothing behind, no trace, no calling card. Not even blood.


	2. And Wears The Crown

**A/N: Well, it was meant to be a one-shot but it got a little out of hand. That seems to happen to me a lot.**

**And Wears The Crown**

The sign on the door, done in purposefully unsteady crayon, the letters staggering one after another like drunks playing follow the leader, says, "No Girls Allowed." She hesitates, and decides to ignore it. It surely wasn't meant to apply to her— after all, she'd practically been invited here. The clues had not been very subtle: a lipsticked message on her bathroom mirror surmounted by a smiley face, like a note from a girlfriend, or to one.

For about the twentieth time that evening, she asks herself why she was doing this; and for the twentieth time, she pushes the question away firmly, like a moth in the dark. There was no point in asking herself questions that she would never know the answer to.

She pushes open the door; it's not locked.

She doesn't get much of a feel for the place before she's descended upon. They must have been waiting for her, watching for her, lurking for her in the corners. They're in masks, all of them without exception, and she wonders where he buys all these, and if there's a discount for bulk shipments. For that matter, where does he dig up all these henchmen, these lackeys, these mercenaries? Several hired hands have been killed every day for months now, in the gang wars and related strife; Gotham should by rights be running out of men.

But this is probably just wishful thinking on her part.

She is not hurt, but she is hustled. Along a corridor, through rooms dimly lit and rooms not lit at all, through one room full of skylights so all of a sudden she realizes she is going up, and the light has dazzled her so when she plunges into darkness again she can't see anything at all.

"This is ridiculous," she manages to get out through her tight lips. One of the men, the one holding her left arm, only shrugs, but the other one says,

"You walked into it with your eyes open, lady."

And he has a point. She has to admit. This is all her own fault, and there's no one else left to blame; it's a relief, almost.

The building has been abandoned for some time, apparently; it had been built in the early Nineties by an entrepreneur who overshot his dreams more than a little. He fell in with the sharks, she remembered, and the waters had run red. She wonders now who got the money. They're on the top floor, and the windows are broken. She can feel the breeze, see the sky but not the ground. Her eyes adjust to the light just enough and he's there, suddenly, a bodiless face looming up out of the darkness, white as chalk with hollow eyes. She can't help it, it's a surprise; she screams a little.

This makes him laugh.

"What's the matter, babe? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She swallows hard as though this will cure her of fear. Her own stupidity in coming here is getting clearer by the minute, as she takes in the face that she's only seen in papers and on the news. In the jail he was maskless, marred not with paint but only with those indelible scars. Now here he is, all decked out, purple suit thick as dusty velvet and his lovely hand-painted grotesqueries shining like a child's worst dreams. She reminds herself that this is what he's chosen, this face to present to the world.

Just like she chose to come here, to see it.

"You startled me, that's all," she says at last. He cocks his head and grins.

"Oh, _good_," he purrs. "Nothing like a little startling to get things rolling. Next time I'll show you my favorite knife first. That startles the crap out of people."

She wants to edge away, but she's hemmed in. She jerks her arms ineffectually in the iron grasps of his men, then raises her eyebrows at him in a pointed look. "Are these goons necessary?"

"_Goons_?" he repeats, delightedly. "Ya hear that, boys? She thinks we're in Dick Tracy! Goons!" He skips over, cuffs the one on the right on the back of the head, moves to the one on the left and pulls the mask out, letting it go, the elastic snapping it back onto the man's face with a painful sort of noise. Both of them stumble backwards, and she stands free; she regrets it a little, as he comes closer to her and grins in her face.

"You're never going to guess where I got these two prize specimens." He waits, she says nothing, he narrows his eyes at her. "Go on. Guess."

She shrugs. "Broke them out of prison?"

"Ha," he says vindictively. "Told you you couldn't guess. Fresh out of our beloved institution, Arkham Asylum— land of the brave, home of the free. In_car_cerated, I'll have you know," he angles his head to the right and eyes her balefully, "on mostly false charges. I believe bestiality was involved." He wrinkles his nose to let her know she should find this distasteful.

She clutches her arms around herself.

"You think they're impressive now, you should have seen them about an hour ago when their medications kicked in. Hiding in fear, gibbering in terror of the human condition." He darts his tongue out and over his upper lip. "I tell you, that is the _last_ time I give a bunch of whack jobs an overdose of laxatives."

She eyes him.

"Probably," he admits. "So. What brings you here, Ms. Quinn? Just dying to be back in my company, that it?"

"I'm curious," she says, truthfully.

He tuts. "Well, you know what that does to felines, don't you? Classically, tragically—"

"I mean, I'd like to know," she clarifies. "I mean, I don't really know myself why I'm here."

He pauses, considering, giving this all due thought, and then comes closer again, waving his henchmen off with both hands. They leave with alacrity, both of them still rubbing their heads, and then they're alone: just her and him and their respective demons. She wonders if there's a swarm of the things, a veritable tornado as they combine. She wonders if any of them overlap, or if any of them are compatible.

He opens his mouth, sucks in breath. "Are— are you _afraid_ of me, Ms. Quinn? Do I give you the shivers, the shakes, the night terrors? Do you come over all _wiggly_ when I get near, start to _squirm_, neck hairs standing up? See, I've had these things described to me, by— various ones, and— it _interests_ me, because, is it fear? Or is it electricity? My magnetic, heh, personality?" He tilts his head the other way. "And how can you tell?"

"I don't know," she says. It's not what she wants to say; she wants to tell him that yes, she's absolutely terrified standing here with him; as afraid as she was that day in the jail, having watched him kill an armed officer with nothing more than a ring of keys and a well-developed talent. But he's asking her more than that, and she knows she doesn't have the answers. So she settles for _I don't know_, and hopes it will suffice till she has more time to find out.

"You're not too bright, are you?" He grins suddenly, sharply, and she wonders if it hurts, like all old scars hurt, in that mental space where your body is still unscathed like you were as a child. "That's okay. I like my women stupid. Otherwise they think they can waltz around like they own the place."

"I used to be— a doctor," she offers, frowning slightly with the effort of remembering. "A psychiatrist. I used to help people."

He arches eyebrows nonexistent beneath the paint. "And you came here because you wanted to help me? Very generous of you, Ms. Quinn. A little, uh, stupid. But. Generous."

"No," she contradicts. "I came because you asked me. My past doesn't matter." She frowns harder, and he tilts his head to one side. "I can hardly remember it, anyhow. Mostly by choice," she adds quickly, as though she fears he's going to pity her for her loss of memory. "I've just kind of— let it go."

He settles his face into lines of patience, purses his lips, folds his gloved hands in front of him. "Do you want to talk about it."

She teeters between all possible answers, and then says, "No."

"Good. I don't want to hear about it. You're a killer and a nutcase, _Ms_. Quinn, whatever else you may have been, and that's good enough for me. Do you want to know why I asked you here? I asked you here," he informs her, again much closer than she would have liked, in her face with hot breath and biting teeth, "not only because you were a wonderful janitor— and, really, the house-wife thing? Quite the turn-on." He flips one gloved hand at her. "Just so you know. But I could sense that there was something else in you. _Hatred_. For the place you worked. You'd been behind the bars, you'd seen behind the scenes— and even though they let you out, you never really escaped. _Did_ you? And _you weren't happy_." The top half of his body leans to the right as he seeks a new angle to pick at her from, like a sniper on a rooftop. "Were you?"

She shakes her head.

"_Miserable_," he says, in a rumble like a dog's growl, so stark that she jumps. "Miserable, free, and all on your own." His tone returns to normal. "And that's why I asked you here, see, Ms. Quinn. I'm a collector of miserable minds." He backs up a step or two, and puts his hands on his hips where the fingers tap nervously, twitching. "What do you think of that?"

She's not sure what she thinks of that; what she should think of that. She has to ponder over it, mull over it, digest it. He's right; she's not very smart. But it's all surface shallowness: there are deep waters in her somewhere, she was sure of it. And this man looked like a bit of a digger. He looked like he'd sunk some shafts in his time. Maybe he can find them.

She says, "I think I understand it."

He runs his tongue around his lips, not so much moistening them as simply feeling the air, tasting it, sensing it. "Well, that's a first."

She tries to laugh, and he looks at her as though astounded. The giggle quickly fades into nothing except a tight smile, and she attempts to explain. "It makes sense, because I'm a psychiatrist who cleans floors and you're a psychopath who dirties them. We fit. Do you see? You see it, you see what I mean, don't you—"

She stops suddenly, unsure of what to call him. The papers had labeled him months and months ago, taking their cue from his calling card; but was that what he called himself? She eyes him for a moment. He doesn't look the sort to go around making introductions; maybe he doesn't call himself anything. He's caught her hesitation, though, and the grin is there at once.

"Say it," he says.

"Um," she falters.

"_Say it_," he demands again, tone sharp, no room for argument.

"Mister," she says, and she suddenly thinks that this is maybe a test. What do his henchmen call him? _Boss_. Is she willing to put herself on that level, in that relationship? Is she likely to be paid for anything she does here, is she expendable, will she be dumped when he has what he wants? She wonders when she will find out what exactly he wants, and suspects that even he doesn't know; but she's wrong. He's looking at her with calculation, and his knife is there ready to hand, and if she doesn't come up with a label for him soon he's going to carve one of his choice into her forehead.

"Mr. J," she says, nervously.

This makes him laugh; but what doesn't?

"It's a start," he says between giggles; he laughs like he would if she was hurting him, because he has trouble finding the difference between pleasure and pain. He guffaws, and pounds his knees, and shakes his head, and when at last he stills he manages, "How can I take you seriously when you _look_ like that?"

* * *

The knife is cold; he strokes it along her cheek, gently, lovingly, and with his other hand runs his gloved fingers along her chin till he's cradling her face between leather and metal, and she has to hold very still if she wants not to be hurt; which she doesn't, particularly, and so she presses very slightly to the right. The leather yields and the blade follows. He pauses.

His voice very soft, he says, "Oh, no no no nonono. Shhh."

He puts the knife down; strips off his gloves, and picks up the paints.

She is made white, as chalk, as a ghost, as his angel. He follows her hairline and rounds around her ears, and he's right: it isn't fear, it's electricity. He does her eyes next, as she holds them shut, paints black diamonds over them instead of gaping holes, neatening the edges with a finickiness she would never have imagined he could display. When he's finished her right eye she opens it to watch him and his gaze flicks to hers; he squinches one eye shut in a return to her inadvertent, artificially-induced wink, but he is playing no games, making no joke.

He does her mouth last, with his finger painting a delicate cupid's bow, leaning forward with head tilted, his own mouth slightly agape. He paints and repaints, thickening the red, stroking and molding it till her mouth, bloodless and unscarred, is the right shape to meet his.

She says past his fingers, "Is it war paint?"

"Do we look like we're at war?" he asks, focused on his task.

"But you never did tell me."

"What."

"I know why you wanted me here. But what am I supposed to do now? I mean, you've got me."

He looks away from her lips, and up at her eyes. He leans closer, narrowing his eyes, settling his shoulders into seriousness.

"All I need," he tells her, "is five minutes."

* * *

Some good time later, he says, "Amazing how long five minutes can last, isn't it."

Her carefully-applied makeup is well and truly smudged; traces of it are everywhere. She's also been bitten.

"You taste like blood and paint," she tells him.

"So?" He sounds almost tired. Snappish and irritable. "_You_ taste like tuna fish. But you don't hear _me_ complaining."

In deference to tradition, he offers her a cigarette from a brightly colored pack; she accepts, and it explodes in her face about five seconds after he's lit it. He laughs, he cackles, he sniggers and wheezes, but it's done no lasting damage, no permanent harm.

She sort of expected it, anyway.


	3. And Takes The Fall

**A/N: Okay, it's really done now. Thanks for reading!**

**And Takes The Fall**

"You," he says, deliberately, definitely, with a wicked and not very secret delight, "have flipped your lid."

He sounds a little admiring, a little proud of his role in her purported lid-flippage. She has to admit, this is a strange thing to be doing on Bruce Wayne's sofa.

She wriggles into her seat a little more comfortably. "I know it."

"I mean, even by my own exacting standards." One hand gestures to himself, he nods emphatically. He shifts his shoulders, rubbing back vigorously into the cushions, like a dog who knows it's not allowed on the furniture but who is determined to teach its owner a lesson by shedding, and possibly puddling, all over.

"Isn't that what you've been telling me, all this time? That it takes one to know one?" She likes to remind him that they've spent time together, likes to show off her scars: arms, legs, neck. It makes her feel legitimate. Tangible. Real.

He ignores her, anyway, just makes an empty yet emphatic gesture at her with both of his gloved hands. If he had anything in them, he'd throw it. "That's you. My prize exhibit. The pride of my nutcase collection."

She giggles at this. She's been with him long enough that he's taught her how. It had been a strenuous series of lessons, but she was now his prize student. Her face is painted, she's dressed in black and white, one half of her suit allocated to each, she has rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, and so he has music because wherever he goes, she follows. She's the jester among them.

She smiles at the thought and settles down, crossing one leg over the other and balancing her notebook on her knee. With one finger she pushes her glasses up on her nose, smudging her makeup a little. His eyes gleam out of their black holes. He's found her Groucho glasses, complete with red nose and bushy black mustache, and he thinks this is hilarious.

"So tell me about your dreams, Mr. J," she says, importantly.

"Hmm," he says thoughtfully, sliding a knife out of his jacket pocket and methodically ripping into the sofa cushions. Stuffing erupts from them, followed closely by a burst spring. He makes a noise, the noise the spring might make if it had happened in a cartoon. _Sproing_. "I dream of world domination, just like everyone else. No point in thinking small."

"Absolutely, absolutely," she says, nodding and making little scribbles on the notebook. She draws a puppy with a little balloon coming out of its mouth that says _woof woof_. She grins at it and adds a strategically-placed dagger. "A man with your talents ought to aim high."

"That's what _I_ always say." He grins, and sits up, and starts bouncing on the slit cushions. Stuffing begins to fly, bursting from the myriad cuts and exploding into the air. He puts one hand on either side of him to keep his balance and bounces harder. She slides the glasses down her nose a bit and eyes him over them.

"Your inappropriate behavior is interrupting our session, Mr. J."

"Screw your session." He bounces harder. "If you wanted to play doctor, I can think of something else we can do."

She laughs. He mocks her. "_Ha ha ha ho hee ha_," in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like hers. This just makes her laugh harder.

"We're never going to get to the root cause of your issues if you don't take things seriously," she tells him, and he stops bouncing immediately and looks at her so hard she flinches.

"Seriously?" he repeats, deadpan. "You want me to take things _seriously_? Do I look like a guy who _takes_ things seriously? Seriously. Do I?" He's feeling for the knife with one hand. It's embedded hilt-first in the stuffing, and he finds it by cutting his hand on it. "_There_ you are," he tells it, and plucks it out, then leans over to grab her foot, hauling it upwards and balancing it on his purple-suited knee. "_Seriously_, Ms. Quinn, I think your issues are a lot more complicated than mine. We've got, uh, suicidal urges, for one. Trouble with authority. Unwanted pregnancies. Illegal abortions. Thoughts of murder. Masochistic tendencies."

"But great dress sense," she says, shaking her head to make the bells in her ears tinkle.

"Good taste in men," he says, shrugging, making allowances for her failings and cutting her shoe off with the knife.

"Anyway that's _Doctor _Quinn, to you."

"Ooooooh," he mutters, reaching for her other foot. The scars make odd ridges in his face when he purses his lips like that. Odder than normal, that is. It looks like the noise is erupting from his mouth the way lava erupts from a volcano. He cuts her slightly on the sole. She flinches and he grabs onto her ankle harder. "Wouldja hold still?" he demands testily. She wriggles her foot and he cuts her again, though to be fair it wasn't all his fault.

"I want to jump."

"You'll get blood all over the furniture."

"So?"

"Good point." He releases her and she springs to her feet, wincing as the cuts come into contact with the ground. It doesn't hurt that badly, though, and she bounds onto the sofa and grins down at him.

"Watch me," she says softly, and begins to jump.

He switches places with her, picks up her notebook and begins to scribble. He doesn't watch, but after a minute raises the paper and shows her what he's drawn: the two of them, doing something most likely physically impossible. In his hand, she's a big dumb blonde, generously drawn anatomy-wise but still wearing the Groucho glasses. She jumps harder, and trips over the spring, and goes sprawling across the carpet. He leans over the arm of the chair.

"Clutz," he says with vicious fondness, and cackles.

A few of his men arrive, plastic clown masks in place, toting guns that look downright anachronistic in this environment. They hustle a prisoner between them; he's in a tux that's seen better days, and probably wasn't that badly ripped when he put it on earlier that evening. He's handsome and square-jawed, one lock of dark hair curling over his brow, with a deceptively delicate mouth which is streaming blood. He's also got a matching set of black eyes, the whole shebang. He's accessorized with bruises.

His host leaps to his feet, giving the girl at them a quick light kick.

"Bruce!" he cries. "May I call you Bruce? Brucie! How about Brucie?" He advances a few steps towards Wayne and stops, swinging his arms out to indicate their surroundings. "How about this for a bachelor pad, huh? I would have done something similar, but the little lady objected to the, ah, blow-up dolls." The little lady is standing up now, and grinning at Wayne with enthusiasm and genuine warmth. The same could not be said for her lord and master. "I _like_ it," he declares. "Opulent, yet understated. Beautiful, yet pointless. Functional, yet broken. Didn't anyone ever tell you about the starving children in Africa, Brucie? How much did you spend on that TV?"

"It'll rot your brain," says his henchwoman brightly. He swings around to look at her, nodding quickly, stabbing at her with one finger.

"True dat!" he proclaims, and she beams.

Bruce Wayne is tensed and ready, though he doesn't seem to know for what. The intruder in his home grins at him.

"You're gonna hate me," he warns, "but I need money. That's why I'm here. To ask nicely before I take it."

Wayne looks at him blearily.

"I thought you usually just robbed banks," he says. "What happened, you couldn't blow the safe?"

His host pauses delicately. "Blowing's not a problem."

"That's what she said!" chimes in his girl from behind them. He winces. He doesn't mind bad jokes but he'd prefer them to be his own. Maybe he trained that blonde a little too well.

"Here's the deal, Brucie. I feel—" he clasped his gloved hands together and looked pious, "—that— I've come down a little harshly on the financial institutions in our fair city. And I now realize that it's time to get the_ individual_ spendthrifts to chip in. Think of me as, uh, a charity operation. Any and all donations and proceeds will go directly to a lobotomy fund for underprivileged children. What they don't know," he waves a hand at the imaginary poor kids, and chuckles dryly, "uh, won't hurt 'em."

Wayne is still tense; but perhaps he has reason to be. "Why did you come to me?"

His enemy raises his eyebrows, hidden behind the face paint, and blinks delicately. "Why, uh, it was pointed out to me by my buxom associate, here, that if you want money, go to the printing press. I don't like to accuse you of fraud, Brucie, but there's no doubt that your money is, is confusing, not to say almost mythical. No one knows where it comes from, no one knows where it's going." He waves his hands around in the air to demonstrate the ethereal nature of Wayne's funds. "I had my people contact your people— they didn't like that— contact— and, uh, your books are better than fiction." He laughs, and wheezes slightly. "Who'd you get to do 'em, uh, Tom Clancy? Le Carre? Len Deighton?"

"Wayne Enterprises has many branches, and a lot of areas of interest," Wayne tells him; his arms are held behind his back so he contorts himself, shrugging deeply, to dab away the blood dripping down his chin with his right shoulder. "The books you saw weren't necessarily the books that I keep."

His enemy draws the corners of his elongated mouth down, looking almost impressed. "So you _are_ crooked. I like a man who admits to his own criminal tendencies; gives us a common ground."

"I didn't say they were crooked," says Wayne. "I just said they were complicated."

His enemy darts his tongue out, thoughtfully, moving quickly over his upper lip, then the lower. "Complicated. I like that."

"You like a lot of things."

"Oh, I _do_," he assures Wayne, brushing back his lank, greasy hair with one hand; his girl steps forwards and runs her fingers through it, and he bats her hands away lightly. "I really do. As you can tell—" and he gestures to the scar-augmented smile ever-present on his face, "—I enjoy life. I get a, uh, a kick out of things, you know? A really big _bang_." In response to the cue, his men fire off shots into the ceiling. The girl jumps. Wayne doesn't move. His enemy looks him over, and grins, then laughs. "_Oooh_, you're a cool one. Used to gunshots, are we? Now, I don't like to resort to threats, so—" He pauses, considers, runs his tongue over his lips again in thought. "So here's a promise. You don't tell me where your printing press is hidden, and, uh, I will _per_sonally reattach your ears to your spleen." He blinks, nods a little, encouragingly. "Are we clear?"

Wayne's face stays amazingly still; only his lips move.

"Perfectly," he says.

There seems to be no physical limitations to how fast he can move. One minute he's there, held and hemmed in on either side by unfriendly faces, by arms, hands, and feet willing to hurt, by teeth willing to bite if need be, if it weren't for the masks of course, and then he was moving, practically a cliche'd blur. He pushes the two on his left together, colliding them as though they're in a cartoon, fields a punch to the gut from the one behind him, throws an elbow into the throat in retaliation. There are three more surrounding him, circling, and he sets in with a fighting spirit; where there's a will, there's apparently a way.

His enemy and his enemy's girl back away, with identical noises of distress and upset. His enemy looks for his usual opening, to get in a kick or two or three, but Wayne moves too fast. What's this about? Why's a gentleman like him trained to do things like this—?

He shouts, snarls like a mad dog, and he's found the knife again. He was never as good with throwing as he was with pure and simple stabbing, but he tries anyway, hefting it till it feels comfortable in his palm, reveling in the weight, and then flinging it as Wayne's back is turned. There's some sixth sense there, though; Wayne turns just enough to take it in his arm instead of his back, and though he groans at the pain he's still moving. And there's no one between Wayne and his enemy, now.

Except the woman dressed as a modern jester, who isn't laughing at her own joke.

Her Mr. J grabs her, whips her around to face forward, one arm around her torso just under her breasts, the other around her waist. She's held as a shield between himself and the irate billionaire, who still has a knife sticking out of his arm. Wayne advances, and the two of them, looking caught and tangled in an illicit tango, step backwards. The second knife, the one he keeps hidden in a place no one knows or is able to fathom, emerges to prick at her throat.

"He's asking himself, _Would he do it?_" He sounds rather manic. "He's saying, _No, surely not! _But does he have enough experience to, uh, _judge_ correctly? Does he know just how desperate a man I am?"

"You're going to kill your own people, that's not up to me," says Wayne, stoically. He steps forward, though, belying this. She stiffens and the knife pricks a bit deeper. He drags her back another step.

"Mr. J—"

"Shh-shh," he whispers into her ear, but the knife doesn't recede. "She's an innocent," he tells Wayne, starting to giggle, "I made her what she is. She didn't have any choice. I didn't give her one. Now, you want to come along and inter_fere_— and I use whatever tools I have at my disposal. And she's a good one. Hand-crafted. Ready and willing to sacrifice herself for my greater good."

They're headed for the window.

"Because the last thing that's going to happen," he goes on, a man of few words but flying above his own limitations now, "is that I get caught out by some, uh, over-privileged, tax-dodging Scrooge. And so what do I say to that?"

Another step back. Wayne stops moving, and his enemy grins.

"He who laughs last," he says, "doesn't get the joke."

The overlooked butler in the doorway takes the shot.

It shatters the woman's leg, below the knee, and she cries out and goes down, slithering through her man's arms to fall in a heap on the floor. There is noise and general consternation, and as fast as Wayne moves, his enemy moves faster, and is out the window and gone.

The psychiatrist, the floor-cleaner, the Joker's girl is left behind.

* * *

She's never liked the night shift. Poor things, creeping in and out of cells and rooms, lurking around corners and doors, all there to clean up after criminals and charity cases, nutters and neurotics. She feels for them, she really does.

She gets up, even though she's not supposed to with that leg, and half hops, half drags herself over to the bars. Wouldn't Mr. J laugh to see her now?

"I'm sorry," she tells the sweeper. "I did try to keep clean, but the bandage came off."

"Don't talk to the prisoner," says the uniformed cop standing by the door.

"I'm sure you don't have to tell _her_ that," she informs him helpfully.

* * *

It's been two days. She has a visitor.

He comes in the night, and without permission, or anyone's knowing. How he got in she will never know, and she doesn't particularly want to. Why take the mystery from it? And this is a mysterious time, practically magical. She's meeting with, not to say sleeping with, the enemy.

He's dressed all in black.

"Wow," she says, and she giggles. "The Batman."

"I've come to find out what you know about him." His voice is harsh, raspy, like a gravel walk, industrial strength sandpaper. She blinks, settles back against the cell wall.

"Do you really talk like that, Mr. Batman?"

He ignores her. She doesn't blame him, she'd probably ignore herself too.

"What do you know?"

She tosses her head, shrugs her shoulders. "I gave him a coffee mug that says _World's Greatest Lover_, if that helps. But," she adds, leaning forward and looking serious, "I was lying a little."

The dark figure stands impressively tall, impassive, arms folded. He looks down at the blonde woman without compassion.

"I don't know hardly anything," she offers. "Other than what I know when I'm with him, I mean. When he's not here, I realize— I don't know anything. Except— the thing is, I wasn't happy before I knew him," she explains, her voice kindly. "I was sane, but that's not the same thing. You ought to know that, Mr. B."

"He left you for dead," he points out.

"Oh, I know it," she says cheerfully. "But that's nothing compared to some of the games we play."

"Games?"

"Well, you've seen what he's like. He only hurts me because he likes it, and he thinks I will too."

"What about his name? Anything about his origins?"

"_Do you wanna know how I got these scars_?" she says, shredding and twisting her voice into a fairly credible imitation.

"Has he told you the truth?"

"Oh yes," she assures him, sitting up straight. "Several times. Several truths. It changes depending on the day. To be honest with you, Mr. B, I don't think he knows himself anymore."

Batman sighs, and stalks back and forth across the cell. He can't hurt her because he's honorable, and she's sitting there looking all innocent and helpless and hurt already. She feels very well-trained. She glows with pride.

"He's gonna come to get me."

Batman looks at her impassively, but then, how is a man in a bat mask supposed to look? "I don't doubt it. But be careful, Ms. Quinn— Harley— hold onto the tail of a tiger long enough, sooner or later you get bit."

This is ridiculous, but she's too polite to say so. Mr. J isn't the tiger. Mr J is the jungle itself, and she can't see the forest for the trees.

The Batman feels sorry for her; this much she is sure of. But she doesn't feel sorry for herself.

"Well, thanks for the visit, Mr. B. But I really need to get my beauty sleep." She yawned ostentatiously, covering her mouth with her hand. "Mr J doesn't like it when I've got bags under my eyes. He says they make the paint look all wonky."

He takes the hint, and sighs harshly, and turns to go.

"I hope you don't mind me calling you Mr B," she calls after him. "It's interesting how many things initials can stand for. Batman— Brucie—"

She's not very smart, she knows. But she's got a spark in her, an instinct fanned into a flame of intelligence. It's the company she keeps, she thinks.

He turns back, very briefly, but he won't stay.

"Mr J will always come for me," she says again, just to clarify.

"Let him," says the dark man. "I'll be watching."

* * *

"About time you got back," says the man with the smile on his face.

She bounces in, ignoring the pain in her leg, grinning at him. The paints are in the corner and she makes her way towards them. "Hang on, Mr J. Let me put my face on." She calls over her shoulder. "Did you miss me?"

"Miss you? The floors are _filthy_."

And so is his mind, she thinks happily. She fills a dual purpose. She's there for a reason.

She'll tell him the important things later. Now, there's scars to be made, and truths to be fuzzed over, and enemies to be misled.

She's glad to be back.

* * *

_He's found someone to tie him down_

_And do it all_

_And in his name she plays the clown_

_And makes the call_

_And lifts the latch, and wears the crown_

_And takes the fall_


End file.
